SPLIT RIVER JUNCTION BATTLE AX BLUES BY PAUL ARTHUR "TURTLE" BEDARD

 The uprooted tree trunks are all dancing the high falutin' octapuss macrabe while a pair of white-gloved disembodied hands plays, for the gathered few're three survivers of vertigotriage's last inception, the unbillfoldable processed breadcrumbs that bring Chopin's Nocturns to my ear as if Madame Blavsky were a Caravan of Gypsy trists reading the lines of the palm of my hand before Casablanca's midnight embers. 

It is true even now. I've lost every game of chess I played against the railyard Porters who said that I'd never bring my autobiography to maximus fruition ultrum vintage thousand watt candleobra cornicopia by the time morning came to light with a needle, thread, and orange peel. But I still have the Apple Juggling French Luitenant's one-eyed peach-plucking hillbilly daughter to thank for finding my matching socks under Peter The Great's nose the same day Vespelia drank vermouth under the Pepper Trees.